


The Woodward's Tale

by PaintedPagan



Category: Alien vs Predator (2004), Aliens vs Predators Series - Various Authors, Predator Original Series (1987-1990), Predators (2010), The Predator (2018)
Genre: F/M, Hunt Gone Wrong, Magic, Supernatural Elements, Yautja
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2019-10-15 15:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17531426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedPagan/pseuds/PaintedPagan
Summary: A young human woman is hunted through an ancient wood by one of the galaxy's most feared hunters. But are things all that they seem?I love the Predator franchise almost as much as I love being out in Nature. I grew up in a very arable county with lots of open fields and big skies, so when I moved to my present home I fell in love with the many patches of old, mixed woodland around it.This little story has been bouncing around in my head for quite a while. It's my first attempt at fiction in a very long while, and my first ever fanfic.It takes a little while for our favourite hunter to appear, but bear with me....Predator, of course, belongs to Jim and John Thomas, and 20th Century Fox, but my characters and their story is mine own....





	1. Prologue

Entering the wood, the clamour and busyness of a typical British suburb seemed to fall abruptly away. They walked a little further in and then she stood, hushing both girls and prompting them to stand and just look, just listen. Muffled giggles – both felt a little silly, a little self-conscious, while Elen smiled to herself and breathed in the scents of earth, trees and a thousand growing things. Together they watched dappled light on tree trunks and deadfalls, the flick of a leaf as some small thing hopped out of sight, watched and listened to the slow creak and sway of the taller trees high up in the canopy. They stood in a small clearing, a natural space where several worn paths seemed to converge and two fallen birches formed a natural arch. Elen motioned her nieces to another fallen trunk and they sat.

“So Aunty, you were going to tell us about the thing – the wood…the woodwerd?”  
Elen laughed and pushed a strand of coppery hair out of her youngest niece’s eyes. “The Wood Ward, yes!”. 

Two pairs of expectant eyes met hers. Even Sophie, the older girl, was not too old for stories. Plus, Auntie Elen was, as her mother said, a proper old hippie, and thus almost cool. 

Elen gazed into the trees, to where the land fell away abruptly into the very centre of the wood and a forbidding tangle of deadfalls, bramble and undergrowth. Composing and opening herself in a manner that had become almost automatic, she closed her eyes momentarily, as if waiting for a cue, some signal to begin her tale.  
A sudden woodpecker-like rattle sounded somewhere above the little group, and the woman smiled.

“It was a time of feudal lords, when the Norman barons were still setting their mark on the land and the people who lived on it. All this land yere, and this wood, that became the lord’s hunting ground and Goddess help any poor folk what got caught foraging or catching themselves a bit of game for their dinner. Most touched their forr’eads and made do, but there were some as didn’t want to give up their groves. There were some as decided that something had to be done…”


	2. chapter 1 - Elf Led

Crouched in the oak, a hunter waited.   
Around him leaves rustled, occasionally brushing his leathery hide. The branch on which he rested creaked occasionally under his considerable weight, but though young he was not a fool and had chosen his perch well. The Summer foliage hid him from below, and he had his camouflage. He had chosen this tree beside the path when the planet’s single star had only just crested the horizon. It had climbed almost to its zenith now and as the temperature rose, so did myriad buzzing and flying things. The hunter ignored them. He had observed this area of grassland and the nearby wood, spotting the cluster of Ooman dwellings a short distance away and the regular movement of the occupants and their beasts along this path. Here he had a clear view of any that might approach and could choose his prey at leisure. Not for him the more favoured tropics of this backwater planet, he wanted something new, something different, in grounds less familiar and thus more challenging.

Suddenly his focus shifted, sharpened – a lone figure came walking along the path from the Ooman village. She - for the shape and stature told him this was a young adult female - drove no beasts nor carried any burden. She strolled beneath his tree apparently unaware of what watched her from above. Foolish creature, he marveled at how it had survived this long. Her light, sweetish scent drifted up to him. As an apparently unarmed female she was, strictly speaking, off limits, but his perch was becoming cramped and this was a young hunter, and thus impatient. He told himself that one Ooman skull was very like another and besides, she would be only one of the many trophies he planned to carry back in triumph to his clan. All thoughts of patience departed as the thrill of the hunt became too compelling. Another waft of scent as she emerged from beneath the leaves hit his olfactory senses and a sharp, clicking trill escaped from beneath his mask. There was a breathless moment as he waited for her to freeze, to panic, to run, but she continued her leisurely walk toward the first of the trees where her path entered the wood as he stealthily descended from the oak, engaging his cloak and watching her retreating back.

Consequently he did not see the slow, secret smile that spread across her face.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

Engaging his cloak, the hunter followed his prey into the wood, reaching the first of the trees moments after her slight form stepped between them. Thus he was mildly surprised not to see her on the well-worn path before him. No matter, her scent was still strong and he started along the path with sure, silent steps. He noted the drop in temperature under the trees and paused to adjust his shiftsuit to compensate. During his scout the previous day he had noted that this was a small wood compared to the vast tropical forests of his homeworld, with well-worn paths that the Oomans no doubt used regularly, so he was confident that he would quickly run his prey to ground. Another trill escaped as he pictured the fine sweeps and angles of her delicate skull in his trophy net.  
Sure enough, as he rounded a tree, brushing through some smaller green stalks, he caught a glimpse of pale clothing flitting between the trees ahead. 

How did she get that far ahead of him?

Heedless of the plants that reached his thighs (nettles, they were called nettles in the Ooman tongue) he quickened his pace. Around him the trees crowded in, familiar in basic structure if not in colour or smell. He could hear a constant piping and twittering which he put down to the native wildlife. Beneath that a warm humming, and then in his peripheral vision he spotted several of the planet’s native pollinators drifting between the flowers in the ground layer. There were a hundred different scents here – he identified loam and wood, a dozen different things that might be herbs and something sweet –while her scent, previously as sharp and bright as glowing line through the undergrowth, began to merge and drift. Was that her? No, that was the small, bright blue flowers that he noticed now dominated the ground around him. He had emerged into a small clearing, the path running clear and true through the centre. There was no sign of her.

Irritation pricked him. He was not some pup, to lose his prey within moments. Taking a deep breath and centering himself as he had been taught, the hunter switched through the visual settings on his mask.  
There – there! A sudden flicker of brighter heat among the trunks off to his right. Growling, the hunter took to the trees, sharp claws on his toes and fingers propelling him up a nearby oak. Once among the branches, however, he encountered a problem – the oak’s branches held his weight but its neighbours’ branches were thinner and more pliable, dipping alarmingly as he leapt onto them and thrashing noisily as he plummeted through them, setting off a flurry of flapping wings and alarm calls as birds and wildlife fled the alien intruder. Something scraped painfully through the ends of his closing fingers as he grabbed frantically at the understorey around him. Nonetheless he succeeded in slowing his fall, landing on his feet amongst feathery green undergrowth that released a heady scent as his sandals crushed some of the stalks. Growling, he set off in the direction he last saw the Ooman’s heat signature, heedless of the green tangle around him. His greaves and bracers, not to mention his thick hide, protected him from any alien barbs or stings. Huffing, shoving saplings and ferns aside, he bulled through the undergrowth until his sandalled feet suddenly met smooth brown earth again and he saw that he was on a path. As he did so he caught a glimpse of a small Ooman hand sliding around the trunk of a birch just to the side of the path on his left.

The hunter spun, trilling in triumph, his tresses whirling around his shoulders and his wristblades sliding free. Two giant strides took him to the place, one hand reaching round to grasp…

Nothing.

Roaring now, he plunged into the ferns, sweeping his blades in a wide arc. Greenery flew and creatures scurried. None of them, however, resembled the Ooman. Getting a hold of himself he retracted his blades, taking a deep, calming breath and inhaling a dozen different scents as he did so. Not only the broken ferns and grasses, but hawthorn and wild cherry, bluebell and dog rose assailed his olfactory centres, surely stronger than when he entered the wood, strong enough to set his head momentarily spinning. As he shook himself to clear it, he heard a soft sound, just over his right shoulder.

He had heard it often enough as he spied on the Oomans in their primitive village. Light, feminine Ooman laughter.

Enraged, the hunter spun and plunged back toward the path. As he did so, something fibrous and tough snagged his sandalled foot, sending him sprawling into a stand of tall plants with serrated leaves. He bellowed as his skin lit on fire in a dozen places. Nettles, they were nettles, but their tiny, stinging barbs should have made no impression on his tough, scaly hide. Instead he roared again as every attempt to regain his feet resulted in a fresh wave of stings as he thrashed and cursed. Finally, grasping at a nearby trunk he dragged himself upright and staggered forward, into a small clearing. He spotted the now familiar blue flowers on their long stems around his throbbing calves – somehow he had managed to return to the first clearing. Perhaps his prey had decided to retreat to her village now that she knew herself hunted. No matter, he could still catch her before she reached the open meadow and certainly before she gained the edge of her village and raised the alarm. Trophies be damned, he would catch the bitch and in ending her end her taunting and her games, and no-one need ever dream for a moment that he was bested by a…

Suddenly she was there, in full view on the path a dozen noks in front of him. Her hair a bright halo in the sunlight filtering through the trees around her, heat in her face and eyes dancing as she gazed straight at him. Momentarily frozen, he anticipated a scream that never came. Instead, she smiled, catching her lip in her teeth as she raised one slim, linen-clad arm toward him.

And beckoned.

As he roared, arms and feet spread wide, she spun, gathering her skirts in both hands and bounding off through the ferns and nettles, the brambles and couch grass as if they weren’t there. Her laughter drifted back to him, stoking his rage. Barrelling after her he lost all sense of his surroundings, consumed as he was with the need to catch and subdue, to see the mocking light leave her eyes as he tore her open.


	3. The Binding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long to update! Life got in the way, plus preparing for my first solo exhibition at the end of the month.This tale has grown from the oneshot I'd originally envisaged and so I had a bit of a struggle figuring out exactly how this chapter would go, but then my muse kicked in at last. Hope you like it - I'll endeavour to update a little more frequently from now on!  
> BTW the WoodWard's Covenant is inspired by Jason Mankey's Charge of the God, which is based on Doreen Valiente's Charge of the Goddess.

It was more than a simple hunt now. The hunter’s focus narrowed down to this one ooman. The glory of a net full of skulls, the faces of his clan and even his elder, even all thoughts of time passing faded and became distant, meaningless. All he could see was the slight figure dancing through the woods ahead, always ahead. He was dimly aware of the light filtering through the trees becoming dimmer, then brighter, of the temperature falling and rising. At one point he was forced to stop so that he could adjust the settings on his shiftsuit to compensate lest he become too sluggish to continue the hunt. Neither light nor dark, heat nor cold seemed to affect his prey, however. She continued to flit through the trees ahead of him, always just out of reach. Occasionally in full view – once standing in a small clearing, red-gold leaves spinning gently to the ground all around her. More often all he saw was a flicker of skirts disappearing around a trunk, or the shudder of ferns falling back into place in her wake. 

In orbit above the planet, another hunter superficially like the one currently raging through an unnamed wood on a small island below paced the floor of a sleek, spacefaring craft. Superficially, because a closer look would reveal different markings on his scaly hide, along with numerous scars. His tube-like tresses bore a multitude of beads, many in precious metals and even the odd feather and intricately carved bone could be seen if one were fortunate enough to be able to stare long enough without risk to life and limb. Even the tusks gracing his crab-like mandibles bore marks too even and too regular to be the result of accidental damage. This hunter’s armour was well-worn, if immaculately kept. An Elite member of his clan, it was his responsibility to oversee this group of young, newly-blooded hunters on their first foray to the Ooman planet. Although far outside the usual range of the Yautja, for that was the name of his ancient and formidable race, the blue-white world turning below was considered well worth the time, fuel and effort due to the challenging nature of its apex predator species. The Elite took well-deserved pride in his role, having never seen one of his charges lost or disgraced. His reputation ensured obedience to his every command – not a youngblood under his charge had ever put so much as a toe out of line.

Until now. Singly and in twos and threes, the hunters had returned to the designated pickup sites, some more laden down with trophies than others, all elated, all boasting their prowess as the undoubted masters of the universe. Drop pods were disposed of - all knew the direst consequences would follow should it be discovered that any trace of technology had been left for the planet’s native species to find. Eventually all were accounted for. Save one.

Irritated, the Elite ordered a scan of the area around the missing hunter’s drop site, confident that the errant young warrior would soon be located and the hunting party could be on their way back to the clanship. While the world turning below boasted no technology that could possibly pose a threat to the orbiting cruiser, this system lay within a sector which, while not exactly disputed territory, could not in purity be said to belong to his clan. A short trip to allow his youngbloods a chance at the infamous Soft Meat prey had been too tempting to pass up, but it would not do to linger.

\-----------------------------

Below, a slight female figure stood in a woodland clearing. Having doubled back on her pursuer, she had gathered snatches of broken stems and leaves, scraped apparently random patches of bark from trees and collected snatches of crushed flowers. Many of these ‘treasures’ were stained with a bright green fluid which seemed almost to fluoresce in the dappled light of the clearing. These she wove carefully into a small object taking shape between her fingers. She hummed softly as she worked, apparently oblivious to the danger of being eviscerated at any moment by the galaxy’s most feared predator. Periodically she would pause in her work to examine the poppet before continuing. Gradually a crude yet somehow compelling miniature version of said predator emerged, complete with a suggestion of tresses and a mask. The figure was finished with a piece of soft rope knotted round its waist, while its maker murmured softly before placing it deep within the roots of the oak before her. Kneeling with her hand still on the poppet she continued to murmur too low for any eavesdropper to make out her words.  
The wood around her seemed to fall suddenly quiet. The treetops stilled, birds fell silent and even the bees seemed to pause in their work. The light dimmed and a kind of ripple flowed from the crouched figure, rolling out in all directions, the only sign of its passing a soft rustle of ferns and nettles.  
Elsewhere, a tall, powerfully built figure staggered. Disoriented, he lowered himself to a nearby log. Not pausing to wonder why something that had been so intrinsically part of his attire and identity should suddenly feel so claustrophobic, he popped the hoses to the side of his mask and removed it, flexing his mandibles. Scents of loam and hawthorn blossom, elder and crushed ferns assailed him, adding to his confusion. He was dimly aware of rustling in the undergrowth nearby and if he could have summoned the strength, or even the energy to care, he would have been instantly ready for the imminent attack or opportunity. As it was, he remained resting on the fallen tree, elbows on knees, massive clawed hands dangling and heavy head bowed as the slender figure approached.

The young witch stepped across the flattened nettles. This close, her quarry was breathtaking. She approached him as she would any wild thing, at once wary of the danger he yet posed and filled with wonder that the gods had bestowed such a gift. In truth she too was exhausted, the Binding had taken many days and nights and she felt the burden as well as the honour of the task appointed to her. She did not question how or from whence such a marvelous creature had come to her, her unswerving faith in the Old Religion had been the deciding factor in her election to this task. Now it was almost done, she let out a soft breath, almost a sigh as she stepped close and laid a soft, cool palm on the Hunter’s great domed head. She felt it slide under her hand as he moved, lifting his amber gaze to hers as she recited the final words of the Covenant…

You will abide in the deep wood.  
You will be the Man of the forest running in the cloak of night.  
With spear and with blade shall you defend the sacredness of Nature.  
You will be the Trickster, the Scourge of those who seek to dominate here  
Undying and eternal, you will know no hunger or pain,  
for there shall ever be a covenant between you and the folk whose groves you guard.  
You shall be the Hunter, the Guardian of the forest, the WoodWard.  
So Mote It Be.  
\-------------------------------------

The young hunter stood at attention. Outwardly impassive, it took every ounce of his training to maintain this appearance of confidence as he winced internally. Three ship’s cycles had come and gone with no sign of the missing youngblood and the Elite’s mood had soured exponentially with each passing hour. Already three of his fellows languished in the infirmary, having been the unlucky bearers of continuing bad news. Silently he cursed the missing hunter – what the pauk had he done to disappear so thoroughly? Thankfully his dropship had been located not far from one the Oomans’ primitive settlements and been dealt with, while a small party, instructed to remain cloaked and not to engage with the wildlife on pain of violent and prolonged death, had fruitlessly scouted the area within a cycle’s foot travel. There was a small forested area nearby, but it appeared too frequently used by the natives and too close to their settlement and, well, in purity no-one felt much like going further than the first line of trees to look. So the party had returned to the ship and their leader’s increasing bafflement and rage. Now, it was his unenviable task to inform the Elite that long range scans had picked up the unmistakeable signature of another vessel that could only belong to the clan who claimed the system they were currently - well - trespassing in. Staring at some invisible spot on the wall and stammering out his report, he waited for the inevitable blow. When, moments later, he found himself still upright and with nothing sharp pointing the wrong way in his anatomy, he dared a glance at his superior.  
The Elite stood with his back to the rest of the space, staring unseeing at the deceptively innocent blue-white world turning peacefully below. His claws had gouged trenches in the metal of the console before him. Briefly he envisioned his return to the clanship, reporting the lost hunter as he must do; the unavoidable stain on his heretofore immaculate honour. Damn that useless pup! He allowed himself a brief moment’s fantasy of the various and interesting ways he could dismantle said pup before squaring his shoulders and turning to the remains of his crew. It could not be avoided, the ramifications of a confrontation with the approaching clan’s vessel were unthinkable.

“Secure stations and break orbit. We return to the clanship”.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------


End file.
